


Fluff

by Oak (theleaveswant)



Series: From First Principles [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Asgard, Cameos, Cats, Cultural exchange, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Post-Thor: The Dark World, kitties!, literal fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-03
Updated: 2014-02-03
Packaged: 2018-01-11 02:01:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1167293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theleaveswant/pseuds/Oak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Coulson, on a diplomatic trip to Asgard, interacts briefly with various persons while trapped under a pile of giant cats.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fluff

**Author's Note:**

> I (theleaveswant) did not write this, but am posting it on behalf of a friend (Oak) who prefers not to create his own AO3 account at this time (and who honestly did not plan to share his written explorations of the Marvel Cinematic Universe at all, but then I squeed a lot).
> 
> All comments and questions will be passed on to Oak for consideration. Oak doesn't want to be identified as a fan writer under his legal name, so if you happen to recognize his style from other, original fiction or non-fiction writing, please do not mention his name when you shout that out.
> 
> The Freya who breezes through this story is Freya as Marvel should have done her, more than the Freya of Marvel-that-is or of mythology.

Director Fury's somewhere in there, negotiating something.

Probably negotiating something. Nick Fury didn't use the word "negotiating"; he'd said "could" and "discuss", but without the "could" grammatically modifying the "discuss".

The rest of it, well, cultural exchange. A handful of analysts learning new kinds of math, half as a favour to Thor, Asgardians visibly doubtful we can do anything much with it; Thor here, visiting, really taking Jane shopping, so far as Coulson can tell.

Which might not be very far.

Coulson got door duty. It's not clear that even the locals can tell the epic carvings apart; the doors, the halls, go on and on and on, the public functions part of the palace. Coulson's sure it's larger on the inside and it's the size of a major city on the outside.

So this, well, this is the door. Everybody from Earth will recognize Coulson, and thus the door.

Coulson can't explain the cats, great fluffy cats bigger than Rottweilers.

One came by, looked at him, curled its tail into a question, stalked up, sniffed, and proceeded to imprecate him for ear-scritching. Quite the vocal range. Coulson finds himself thinking _like a Siamese who could play Fafnir_ and starts to worry. That's not an on-duty sort of thought.

He's really not sure how long he's been sitting on this bench.

There are more cats.

"Hail the risen hero." One exact unforgettable voice.

"You're _dead_."

"So were you." Loki's amusement wants to be glee, and chortling.

Agent Coulson looks, just a little, panicked. There's one good way to make sure Fury doesn't find out Loki's alive, and another really bad one.

"No, no, Agent, are you not within the sacred, ancient bounds of guest-friendship, hall-welcomed by the High One himself?"

Coulson's pretty sure Loki's expression doesn't have a name. Can't feel anything being changed in his head, doesn't believe he could tell.

"And, by no means to be neglected, the women. Behold the guest-friendship of She Who Shines Over The Sea, the One Glad in Adornment, Mistress of Cats?"

Quite large cats, any two of them would make a big lion. There are, Coulson isn't sure, maybe twenty of them now. Scritching behind the ears seems to help. Standing up is quite out of the question.

Loki pulls a brush out of the air, a big thing like a carding comb, and tosses it lightly.

Coulson catches it, half out of reflex, half out of not wanting the bristles hitting his face. Four distinct cold wet noses press in on his wrist.

"What is done in war in the outworld is not what happens in Asgard, truly. For who should disdain peace in their own home?"

 _Fey_ , Coulson thinks. The word is _fey_.

Even for Loki.

Doesn't keep him from brushing, it would clearly not be wise to avoid brushing. It's looking like there's a customary order.

Twenty-one cats, neatly lined up.

Staring.

Fixedly staring, straight at the brush.

Whatever the wall-bench is, locally, functionally, this is supposed to be a quiet space outside the quiet space, the place you go to have a private discussion beside the main negotiation, the main negotiation that maybe isn't happening. Coulson doesn't know what the wall-bench is called in Asgard, or even if it's furniture, precisely. If there's a no-cats-on-the-couch rule someone's going to be angry. It's comfortable, even with the first six cats lying on it, purring. The purring feels like the helicarrier at flank speed, it's not a subliminal shake.

"Peace isn't just not fighting." Not the smartest thing to say, maybe, but neither is it wise to ignore a god.

Whatever Loki might have said, it vanishes with Loki and Loki's sudden look of startlement and fear, gone without even a sparkle.

 _Good_ , Coulson thinks, and then _What is Loki afraid of?_

Probably not the ringing stride, maybe the aura. Coulson's human, untalented, normal, really. He feels this anyway.

Blonde, Coulson thinks, this is the blonde the rest of them are trying for.

The cats chirp, and preen, sitting up and briefly, only briefly, looking away from the brush. Then it's settling back down, basking in the smile.

A little of the smile splashes on Coulson, about like five gallons of salt water.

"It is all well done of thee, Agent, and may it rebound to thy blessing."

 _Didn't even slow down_ , Coulson thinks, and then realizes he's got no least idea what this particular goddess looks like, not beyond the tide of hair and the shining smile and the one point of light worn like a necklace.

It really is a specific order of cats, and they're, thankfully, self-policing about the duration of brushing. Three outbreaks of feline swear words. Half a paw-raising, once, and a perfunctory hiss.

At cat number eight, the next door over opens. You can't hear it. You can feel the pressure, though; the air moves, people spill out.

Coulson calls out, "Analyst!"

Themistocles M'Zangwe is heading down the cross corridor, and stops, looking back. There're some Asgardians with him, a few more people from the analysis section. They all smile, not as wide as M'Zangwe does, but they all smile.

"Sorry, Boss; don't have another brush and these guys claim the beer here will dissolve statistics."

Coulson grins. He doesn't completely want to, but there are rules. "Hoist a couple for me."

"Gladly," M'Zangwe says, turning away, keeping going.

Cat number nine is when Coulson switches hands. Trying to shake out his right hand gets him a handful of cat head, from cat number six, or maybe seven, still lying indolent beside him, head rising with a hopeful "pronk?" sound, and a faceful of fluff and insistence from cat number nine, who would like to note, ever so politely, that the brush is neither moving nor being applied.

At cat number twelve, Coulson still off-handed, Thor and Jane and Darcy go by.

Jane Foster looks entirely like a goddess, blue and silver and a cloak full of stars. Helmet, headress, Coulson really isn't sure, it could as easily be a crown, and all he can think of is metallic sapphire. If there is any such thing, they've probably got it in Asgard.

Darcy Lewis is twirling.

Coulson thinks the collection of, he can't call it a dress, he's pretty sure Cap couldn't call it a dress with a straight face, might be decent if Darcy wasn't moving, but twirling it isn't close to decent. More like incitement. The red-gold ribbons lift, and slither, and chime. Why you'd make, how you'd make, metal ribbon translucent, Coulson doesn't know.

The effect is vivid.

"Darcy!" Jane can sound like a goddess, too. One contemplating smiting.

"What, I want to get someone's attention. Have to practice."

Mjolnir rises, near enough salute, and Coulson, startled, raises the brush back, nearly the same gesture. A beat, and another beat, and a long plumy length of cat tail thwaps into Coulson's leg. He starts brushing again.

"Ian _wore out_ " is the last thing Coulson hears. The corridors don't carry sound the way he expects.

By cat number sixteen, Coulson's switching hands with every cat. There's a cat head on each ankle, purring, and he can't entirely feel his feet.

Cat nineteen is about half brushed when the steps coming down the corridor are brisk and ringing. Coulson thinks of Hill, for a second, or Victoria.

Neither are here.

Some tall goddess, red leather and polished armor. Not quite the shine of steel.

More shine from the smile.

"O, ill it seems of our courtesy, to put a guest to being a stable-hand."

"You stable cats?"

"I do not, and these would not have you believe it, but these are Freya's chariot-cats, in their ranks and several ages of degree."

"They draw the chariot?" Stable-cats ought to catch mice. Even Asgard probably doesn't have mice you'd need these cats to catch. Which makes them draft cats, but still.

Heads come up, resplendent in whiskers and disapproval.

Coulson smiles. "Well, fine, I sit corrected. Cats don't do that where I come from."

There are tail flips, ear swiveling, a certain amount of ostentatious paw arrangement. The purring, that had thinned, goes back to the helicarrier at flank speed.

Two of the cats rearrange themselves so the tall goddess has a place to sit. One curls up, alseep, or nearly, the other leans in, head into the armored thigh, and accepts scritching.

"People don't argue with Freya, I take it?" Coulson's too tired to be completely diplomatic, and it is funny. At least if you're not whoever has to bring the catnip to this pride of tabby lions.

"Only at great need," the tall goddess—tall _for_ a goddess, Coulson corrects his own thought—says.

Cat nineteen's done, and twenty hops up with a look of rewarded patience and a head-butt apparently intended to see if Coulson's sternum will purr loose.

"Agent, Guest, tell me about Earth."

Coulson finds himself thinking that the goddess, also, might be purring.


End file.
